


Authentic Consciousness Convolutes Communication

by cuddlepunk



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: But whatever, Introspection, Other, Pain, Self-Destruction, Sleep Deprivation, Songwriting, and its a first person pov, bc i dont describe the oc, from the oc, its actually kind of an x reader, mentions of unreality anyways, unreality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s almost as if painless people produce works devoid of worth simply because their pasts carry no real experiences. With that experience of true breaking, you must also be able to distinguish legitimate pain from that of normality.” </p>
<p>Or, Ryan is having difficulties writing a song and has a conversation about how hitting rock-bottom makes creating original art meaningful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Authentic Consciousness Convolutes Communication

**Author's Note:**

> Insert a generic disclaimer about how I don't own Panic! at the Disco or Ryan Ross / this is a work of fiction / don't show this work to anyone involved in Panic! / you get the idea.
> 
> Also there are mildly detailed descriptions of pain and self-destruction along with some glorification of that stuff, among other things, so watch out for triggers.

Things are good. After the fever tour ended, Ryan returned within a few days and things got settled right back into place. Other than his obviously changed sleeping patterns (being across the world and back in such a short time-frame brings the most disorienting jet lag), this is all the same, if not better, stronger. That one change, however, is leading to many sleepless nights. Days of slumber result. 

It’s just before five in the morning. All of the windows in his bedroom are open; they often slightly drag across their windowsills with soft swaying winds. They let in what soft morning lighting is brave enough to be up at this hour. Pale blues shine over his desk, tinting tea-stained sheets of paper littered with song scraps. The glow slightly refracts off of his dark eyelashes; shadows and highlights awake his face, upsetting his dark under eye crescents and exhausted features. Stealing glances also clue me in on his apparent frustration. It looks like whatever he’s working on isn’t coming together.

“Everything alright?” I ask, softly swinging my legs off of his bed and letting the book I was reading get tangled in his bedsheets.

“Most things are alright. This song, however, is not.” He says with an exasperated, but weak, tone. His teeth run over his bottom lip. 

My eyes slide over his cluttered workspace. A mug of creamy black tea sits on the side of the light wooded desk. An old pen threatens to fall off the edge and onto his lap. Slightly wrinkled edges of paper lay stacked to nearly cover the surface in different areas. In the middle of the desk, however, a relatively short stack sits, more organized than the rest. He stares down at it for another few seconds before closing his eyes and sending his hands to his temples.

“I don’t get what’s missing. I’ve been working on this for a while; everything’s come together except for one small section, really.” His eyes are still bolted shut.

His chest rises and falls violently once. He pushes his chair away from the desk and stands up with a sigh. His jean button up catches the window’s beam and illuminates his figure. Paths of light fall onto his face as he steps further into the spotlight. His lips are chapped, but not painfully so. Eyes overcast with shadow, cheeks lacking their usual rosy luster.

“That sucks. Ry, it’s great that you’re on your way to reaching a breakthrough, but you haven’t slept in nearly three days. You might want to give up the ghost for at least five hours or so.” I pull my legs up to my chest and lean against the headboard.  
His eyes drop and his voice takes on a rather teasing tone “It’s not as if my poltergeist is anything of significance, is it?”

I look to him with an utterly unamused expression.

“Yeah, alright, I’ll be there in a second.” He unbuttons his shirt and tosses it in a nearby clothes basket. After another layer or two is stripped away, a dark blue hoodie and a thin pair of drawstring pants slide back over exposed skin. He shuffles into bed beside me, burying his head in a pillow with a groan.

“Classy.” I murmur, taking a second to brush my fingers over his head.

His voice is muffled by the pillow. “I can’t stop thinking about writing, not really. Not this song or any other. You can’t get better at anything unless you constantly do it, I find. To make anything real without being in a great deal of pain. Do you at least vaguely understand what I’m saying?”

“A little. Feel free to elaborate, though.” The clock strikes five in the morning.

He shifts a bit so his face isn’t covered by any plush cushions and draws his hands to rest behind his head. I catch a scent of distant vanilla along with tea and ballpoint ink. His elbow hits my side but I’m not bothered. “That song is never going to get any better if I don’t work on it. My songwriting will never get any better if I don’t write songs. Nothing will ever get any better if nothing happens. But a song without work, without emotion, without the writer’s breaking, is worse than an abandoned project. This sounds quite destructive, I know, but I find that those who create anything without truly understanding mind numbing pain and rock bottom create nothing of value.”

“It’s almost as if painless people produce works devoid of worth simply because their pasts carry no real experiences. With that experience of true breaking, you must also be able to distinguish legitimate pain from that of normality.” I gaze softly at his rustled duvet cover under my folded knees. 

“Yeah. You get it. You’ve been there after all. See, maybe that strive for brokenness, that thrive for knowledge of the ugly is what drives us to sit awake at five am and sleep until the afternoon.” A small laugh tangles into his rough voice.

I slide down into the sheets and focus on distancing myself from my surroundings. I want unreality and foggy existence to jog my mind for future discussions. No one can truly speak their mind with ties to the material world, I find. Authentic consciousness convolutes communication. 

It’s a bit too hot under his stiff comforter, like a slowly suffocating burning sensation. “Being up at such hours can mean only one or both of two things. You’re in love, or in self-loathing. I think we’re in both myself. Surely our conversations have clued to such context.”  
His eyelids flutter. “That’s certainly the case, love. Hopefully neither cause will shift out of hand.” He pauses for a moment, pressing a hand to his forehead “I’m so dizzy. It’s numbing. It’s like a carousel.”

“The spinning in your head?”

“Yeah. Or anyone’s head, really. If one’s head is a carousel, what would the rides be?”

“Thoughts, I’d say. Maybe memories. Just as each actual ride on a carousel holds a past of its own, has a list of riders that have partaken in the riding of the pony or secondary seating, a thought of true contemplation has a history of when someone’s thought of it. In that way, thoughts along are similar to thoughts. Not that your head’s not spinning like a carousel. Are you alright?”

He exhales “I suppose so. I think it’s mostly exhaustion, but sitting at that desk all day isn’t helping. I think I just need to sleep it off.”

“Maybe that lack of sleep is what’s causing your writer’s block.”

“Probably.”

He slept for fifteen hours straight.


End file.
